Slient Girls

Morning rises,

but not for play,

not for school,

only for chores that steal the day.

They wake with the sun,

bags empty,

hearts heavy,

dreams locked behind doors they cannot open.

The walls watch quietly,

swallowing laughter,

biting hope,

hiding voices that ask why and how.

Lessons are gone.

Books gather dust.

Pencils sit untouched,

waiting for hands that will never hold them.

Outside, children run and shout,

but girls stand behind gates,

their eyes on the ground,

steps slow, heavy, careful.

Education is a ghost,

taken before they could touch it,

before they could dream it.

They wrap themselves in cloth,

silent soldiers of survival,

hiding smiles,

hiding questions,

hiding futures no one promised.

Snow falls on the empty streets,

rain falls on bare feet,

and still, they walk,

carrying hunger in their stomachs,

fear in their hearts,

and courage they cannot name.

One girl whispers in her mind:

Bread, pen, school… one day they will be mine.

But the world is loud and deaf,

walls do not listen,

doors do not open.

Mothers whisper:

Be patient, my child.

Daughters ask:

For how long?

And silence answers,

bitter and heavy,

like shadows on their skin.

At night, they sit on cold floors,

books untouched,

shelves lined with dust,

dreams stacked like stones

they dare not move.

But still, their eyes shine,

like candles

the wind cannot snuff out.

And still, their hearts beat,

small but steady,

with a quiet hope

that someday,

someone will let them read,

someone will let them write,

someone will let them live.

They learn patience,

they learn endurance,

they learn silence,

but never surrender.

And in the darkness,

their small light waits,

a whisper that refuses to die:

We will rise.

We will learn.

We will live.